Professionalism Be Damned
by Konstantinsen
Summary: A series of anecdotes on how Major Alexander Degtyarev conducted his "lengthy and rigorous investigation" of Operation Fairway in a manner that would make his superiors at the SBU rage in horror had they knew what he was actually doing.
1. Insertion

**NOTE: I've been playing S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Call of Pripyat on Misery 2.0 mod (with Patch 2.02) and by God, I've been having some really awesome, freaky, baffling, and weird-ass headcanon experiences while playing.**

**So I thought about writing off to see what would come out. Expect an entirely different Major Degtyarev as well as some equally different...elements.**

**This is all based on my experiences while playing on the mod so...I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

Sacha revered the fog with animosity. He normally appreciated the thick mist but visibility had dropped to a radius of five feet, much to his discomfort. And as a trained marksman, he preferred combat in situations where he could engage the enemy at a reasonable distance.

His surroundings could have worked for him had not the cloud grounded itself around him. He could hear the frogs croaking in the cattails not far off and the brown autumn bushes were dense enough to provide concealment.

However, having just arrived here following misguided directions, it had become clear to him that he had maneuvered himself into a possible deathtrap where the only indication of danger hinged on his ability to pick out the faintest sound. He allowed himself a smile at that; his hearing was still good after years of exposure to deafening blasts of gunfire and grenades thanks to the amazing properties of certain artifacts.

Sacha began his walk forward, coming towards the edge of a shallow lake. The fog had loosened up a bit, allowing him ten feet of vision. That was good. Now, he needed to make for the nearest camp which, according to (_currently outdated_) information on his GPS map, was across the nearby hill which he currently could not see.

"_Chort_," he whispered, hoping that no animals were around to hear that.

Seeing as there was none, he saddled his rifle and followed the ridgeline. It was the closest path he could take that led to Skadovsk, a derelict ship which he hoped would be teeming with friendly life. That or he would have to write up a berating report on the inefficiency of his colleagues at Kiev in gathering proper intelligence. Then again, that argument could be doomed by the reasoning of how the Zone was unpredictable as much as it was unstable.

The mist faded some more as he reached a peninsula. He could see an old pier on the other side of the lake. If the water was shallow enough, he could simply wade across. _But risk alerting nearby predators._ He briefly pictured himself being overwhelmed by a pack of dogs while waist-deep in the lake.

"Worth a shot?" he asked himself. _Definitely._

He didn't know where the answer came from but he was sure that the part of his brain that was marred by extensive stalker experience was giving the best advice. With a final check of his effects in his bags, he lifted his rifle above his head and dipped himself into the water.

By the time he was across, he found solid footing and was grateful to find a concrete road that looped around the hill and led into..._an anomaly field of all places._ This one was dubbed the 'Burnt Farmstead' by his associates at headquarters and it did not surprise him that the nature of this particular area was fire. _No shit, I could feel the fucking heat from here._

The road seemed to lead towards it so he decided to descend down the slope. He broke off from the path and was quickly rewarded by the sudden jolts of pain that throbbed in his head. Sacha grunted, dropping to his knees and realizing quickly enough that he was entering the effect radius of a psi-mutant. He swerved around and struggled towards the shade of a large tree.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he dropped against the bark, leaning his back as he massaged his temples.

"_Tvoyu mat'... Suka, sraty..._"

_Okay, so where should I go next?_ He checked his PDA and thumbed the GPS map, looking for any possible alternative routes he could take to get to Skadovsk. _There..._

He looked up at the dissipating fog and then back at his device. Then he glanced back up again and was satisfied to note that the terrain unfolded in front of him, revealing areas at distances he could work with. _Good. _From where he sat, he could see a pack of dogs moving behind the thick woods. Not far away was a trio of fleshes that were headed in the opposite direction.

He drew out his scope—which he had earlier detached from his sniper rifle when the mist settled in—and peered through, watching with amusement as the canines began to viciously harass the pigs.

_Focus, Sacha._ The stalker harrumphed at himself and quickly attached the PU-scope to his Mosin-Nagant. It was an old rifle that was actually authentic in that it dated to the years before the Second World War. That, however, did not help its current condition which put a dent in his skills as a marksman trained with modern firearms. Still, he had come to admire the Mosin for its effectiveness as much as its age.

Sacha picked himself up from his spot and began circling around the Farmstead, opting to take his right and breathing a sigh of relief that the effects of whatever psi-mutant was around did not reach his mind.

As he rounded the anomaly field, he plopped down another tree, kneeling with his rifle to check his position before settling down to rest his legs. From here, the top of this hill, he could see the landmarks situated across this region of the Zone—marked as Zaton on the general maps including Google. He took the chance he had to survey his surroundings and memorize as much of the terrain as possible...

* * *

Nimble stretched his legs, waving back at the stalker who had just received his first delivery from him. He had managed to return earlier than he had anticipated, allowing him enough rest for his back which screamed from the pressure of carrying a rare weapon prototype that cost his client a hefty sum. Well, the ammunition for it would cost more, he thought.

A series of piercing cracks reverberated from behind his barred-up window and he motioned to peek through the gaps in between the thick steel sheets he had welded into place. So far, he couldn't see anything other than a dead boar roll down the side of the hill near the massive sewage pipeline that jutted out of the ground.

_Probably a hunter_, he mused. Though he did find the sound of the pop to be very different from any he had heard in his year-long stay at Skadovsk. Probably someone with a unique shooter had come along. He yawned, _perhaps an old model...sounds a lot like it..._

* * *

Sacha knew it was rude but Kiev said this man was a trader. Climbing up the tugboat, across the plank, and onto the first level of the Skadovsk, he took the time to admire his surroundings as he did at the Farmstead. He could hear music, laughter, and an out-of-tune guitar coming from inside the hull and for the first time in days, he felt genuinely grateful that there was life and relative safety.

Then he dropped his grin into a scowl after seeing a supposed trader of goods nodding off in the middle of the day. By the looks of it, the only weapon he could see was a Desert Eagle with a silencer screwed on. _Kiev better not be bullshitting about this one..._

Nimble rubbed his eyes, sitting up and eyeing the man who disturbed him from his sleep with mild irritation. He mentally scolded himself for being so brash and forced on his professional mien.

"Yes? Is there anything you need?"

"You are a trader, yes?"

Nimble noted the hint of aggression in his tone but nonetheless remained impassive. "Correct. I deal in high-end gear: advanced suits, latest models, and the like. All my equipment is topnotch and can last longer than most if maintained properly."

"Where are they then?"

The trader blinked. "Come again?"

"Where is your stuff? It seems like you ran out or something."

"For your information, brother, I do not usually keep my items on display. I have connections in and outside of the Zone that hold all the things that I sell. Now, is there anything you need?" For one, this was a crummy client.

Sacha scoffed. "What do you offer?"

"As I said: high-end equipment. Top notch gear—"

"Yeah, yeah. But what exactly? Like Grozas or Dragunovs?"

"Yes, something along those lines. Though, I can assure you that the other traders here on this ship offer the same products. Just not of the same quality." Nimble leaned back, allowing himself a smile at that prideful business comparison. Owl was his frequent competitor and despite serving as the main go-to guy for general equipment, he did not offer rare models that were often favored by Western stalkers who, specifically, were as rare a breed as their weaponry. Besides, the last time he had seen a properly functioning M16A1 rifle was when some American ex-marine had come by to check on his wares...and then promptly got shot in the head by bandits.

"So I have to order then? Is that how you do it?"

Nimble could hear the acid dripping and he was becoming increasingly annoyed by the man in front of him. By the looks of it, it appeared as though he didn't have enough cash for the cheapest pistol he could offer. The man's face was partially obscured by a dirty scarf while the rest of his body was covered in a worn-out overcoat of all things.

"_Da_, that is how I do business. Now, tell me: is there anything you need? If not, then I suggest you visit the other traders."

"Fine. Where are they?"

"Owl is the only one who can get you what you want. He's downstairs on the second floor. And on the ground level, there's the bar. You can check Beard—he's the barman. He'll sell you food and all that. If you have an artifact with you, take it to him. He pays well."

Sacha took it all in before giving the man a nod and heading downstairs. Nimble finally let himself fall onto his bed, drifting off to another nap.

* * *

"You new here? That's alright. You'll settle in soon enough. I'm Beard, the local bartender. You got any questions, you come to me, alright?"

"Alright. First things first, what the hell is with the rabbits? They're all over the place."

Beard crunched his face, leaning forward. "It's like this. I don't hold anything against the assholes so long as they don't shank anyone, don't steal too much, and don't puke on my mushrooms. Besides, not everyone you meet is a total douche bag. I mean, some of them were former Zoners before fate or whatever pushed them to take up banditry. I don't blame them...well, most of them, really."

Sacha turned around. Across the bar, he noticed a bald man in a brown trench coat studying him from his dark corner. Beside him was definitely his proxy, his own garments being a menagerie of tanned mutant pelts. That sure spoke volumes.

"Who's baldy over there?"

The bartender sighed. "That's Sultan. He's the head of the bandits here. We struck an agreement in that they could take shelter here in case of a blowout. But they've been stomping their foot a little too close for comfort."

"I hear you." _Territorial disputes. Just what I need. Put all the bastards in one plate you have a pot of chili without the spices._ "So, what do you have for me."

Beard straightened his back, returning to business. "Food. Drinks. Some kits and other stuff you might need. I also sell an SSP-99 Ecologist suit, if you're interested. I'm the only one who can offer you that. Just for a suitable sum—"

Sacha waved it off. "Not interested. What's on the menu?"

The bartender shrugged. "Suit yourself. What do you want? Canned or the local variety?"

"How much is the canned?"

* * *

Sacha smoked his first cigarette of the day, watching the sun set in the distance. He made a mental note to dine on grilled flesh chops with a bottle of cheap alcohol until he could afford better supplements for his daily meals. He was starting to dislike the equipment issued him. _'In cognito,' they said. 'You'll move around quickly,' they said. Well, you could have at least given me some Kevlar, damn it. It's not like everyone here will get suspicious._ Most of the inhabitants of the Skadovsk had at least a patch of body armor on them. He had none of the sort and the polycarbonate plates that Owl had were too expensive.

Rather, he was now broke. He tapped the end of his cigarette, puffing out a small cloud. The helicopters can wait. His hopes for the survival of any of the soldiers were slim from the start. Until he could get a feel for the Center of the Zone, then perhaps he could reevaluate his judgment of the jarheads' fates. Some of them may have survived, sure, but the Zone changed people faster than the zap of anomalous electricity.

He looked up at the sky, seeing the first stars twinkle above the orange light that faded behind the hills.

"You must be new here."

Sacha turned his head, seeing a stalker far suited to the wastes than him. The man had a jury-rigged assault rifle slung over his shoulder and a thick helmet that clearly had the camouflage patterns of the military. He leaned against the railing of the hull, imitating his posture, the bulges of his vest pockets sandwiched in-between.

"What gave me away?" There was no point in defending his cover.

"Look at you, man. Is that all that you have on you?"

_I could bop you one right now and take your shit but what's the use?_ "It's all I could afford. Getting here cost me a lot more."

The man laughed. "I feel you." He raised two fingers. "Mind sharing?"

Sacha complied, offering up a stick from his packet. He had another one in his personalized box downstairs. Beard's idea of a micromanaged storage room for all the equipment and personal effects of each individual Zoner was brilliant; effectively sustained with the cooperation of everyone else, it was considered a prime model of a Zone-esque storage locker complete with individual keys and padlocks. Even Sultan had to allow some of his goons to use up some space.

The catch was that any locker, box, or container that was untouched in a week would be cracked open and the contents acquired by the traders. It seemed hardly fair but stalkers were never fair to begin with.

"Aren't you the part of the guard detail?" he asked, leaving the other to light up his cigarette.

"Yeah. But my feet hurt and I don't feel like going around the ship again. Besides, the muties usually steer clear of the Skadovsk, even without us to keep an eye out."

_You sure are confident_. "Fine. I won't blame you when a bloodsucker dries me up when I sleep."

The man laughed again, more haughtily this time. "You sure are someone."

Sacha hummed. He didn't feel like talking to anyone right now. He was tired from the trek from his insertion point near the southern Belorussian border. Besides, there was nothing important to talk about anyway... _Not really..._

"Say, I have a question."

"Shoot."

He looked at him, inhaling some of his smoke. "Got any idea about some crashed choppers around here?"

The guard paused. "Actually, I saw one myself. About a week ago, if I'm not mistaken. It didn't look like it crashed but it wasn't flying good either. It was swinging from side to side until it landed on the Southern Plateau. Why?"

He shrugged. "They pay well for military equipment."

"Hah! Well, good luck getting up there. Only that psycho Noah knows a way how and nobody would bother asking him. Seriously, the plateau is as steep as a concrete wall. I know a bunch of guys who tried climbing up there. They fell on their backs and ended up limping here with broken hips...a miracle they weren't snagged by bandits... I suggest you check the other choppers instead. I hear one landed in the Swamp while the other is at the Iron Forest. Swamp is the easiest, though. I'm still surprised why no one's ever tried to check it out..."

_Good for me, then. _"Who's this Noah guy?"

"Still interested in salvaging some stuff? Mm, I won't stop you. Noah's over there"—the guard pointed to a thin ramshackle tower in the distance, the frame of it silhouetted against the darker terrain of the marshlands. The sun had already set and the stars had begun to show. "I'm telling you, that asshole is a freaking psycho. Always has a shotgun aimed at the door so you may want to step aside when you knock."

Sacha nodded understandingly. He made a final drag on his cigarette before stomping it against the grated deck. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, man."


	2. To The Plateau

_You have got to be shitting me._

"You have got to be shitting me."

_Seriously, you have got to be shitting me!_ Sacha thought, gawking dumbly at the space beyond the gap in the fences of the Burnt Farmstead. The thought of jumping into an anomaly in order to arrive at a particular location overcame the obvious fact that the heat from the burners was giving his sweat glands a rigorous go.

The stalker gulped. He checked his surroundings—trees, grass, and the side of a hill free of mutants for the time being.

_Noah, you better not be shitting with me or I will fucking end you_.

The handheld radio came to life. The grating static faded and he could distinctively hear Noah's voice beckoning, "The trial by fire is more difficult than the trial by resolve."

Sacha scoffed. "Trial by resolve, my ass," he muttered without thumbing the button to acknowledge. His mind went back to alternative routes to reach the plateau but despite the screams of his rationality to reconsider this option, he ultimately opted to follow in his guide's path despite how much of his sanity had been poked through and through by the Zone.

_I've done a lot of crazy things in my life. _He had faced countless mutants, killed a controller with a jackknife, and outsmarted the Army, the SBU, and the Bandits several times despite the penalty of quickly warranted death... _Come on! Anomalies are to be avoided, not embraced, for fuck's sake. _He clicked his tongue and shook his head. _Goddamnit._

"The things I do..."

The stalker exhaled, feeling the stock of his rifle behind him, tucked thoroughly beside his backpack which carried approximately thirty pounds of necessary equipment including ammunition and hastily tied rolls of bills earlier prepared in anticipation of a transport fee that was replaced by a rhetoric riddled with paranoia. The reinforced padding strapped all around his suit—a freshly purchased do-it-yourself "Sunrise" garb—ensured admirable protection against the merciless heat of the anomaly field.

_Why am I doing this again?_ he mused as he weaved carefully and hastily through the yard, cringing at the searing temperatures that burned through the fabric of his clothes. He rounded the corner of the tree and sprinted to the gap, leaping feverishly over the edge of the cliff.

The first thing he saw before he could close his eyes was the blinding flash of the anomaly engulfing him completely. This was followed by a piercing ringing in his ears as he landed feet first on top of the Southern Plateau five kilometers away.

"Nice jump. Feel free to drop by next time," Noah remarked not less than six feet off, his shotgun pointed at the entrance to the snork den.

Sacha shook his head, feeling a bout of nausea sweep over him and sending him landing on his bottom as he tried to get on his heels. His ears rang with a frequency that would send the dogs running. The gas mask came off quickly, tossed onto the ground, as he dropped on all fours. "Shit, man. Fuck that. Seriously, _fuck that_!"

"You have passed the trails. When the need arises, you will have to go through them again," Noah remarked, picking up the discarded headgear. "Put this on. I could feel the muties up ahead. They can sense you too, you know. It's just like..."

The stalker drowned out the rest of the diatribe, his animosity for anomalies further swelled by the uncomfortable jaunt. _Fuck you, Noah. Just...fuck you._


	3. So They Say

Hawaiian felt a hand ruffle him out of his mid-afternoon nap. He raised his head, weary eyes glaring lightly at the man who bothered him. Then he dropped his eyelids back down upon registering his identity. He yawned.

"Hey, Nitro."

The technician nodded back. "Hey, Hawaiian. What's the on the menu?"

"Late lunch?" the trader asked sleepily, reaching over to scratch his bottom.

"Kinda. You still have some canned in there?"

"Yeah. A lot. Nothing expired yet."

Nitro nodded, handing over a wad of bills and receiving a can of Spam with a matching can opener tied to the rim of the window's frame. He worked the lid quickly, rewarding himself with a bite of Western meat.

He scanned his eyes around the reception area of Yanov train station, dropping his gaze at the empty tables in the room. The stalker camp was feeling rather empty today. Nitro checked his watch, confirming that he hadn't lost track of time; it was half-passed three.

He nudged at the trader, pointing a finger at the unoccupied seats. "Where's Flint?"

"You didn't hear?" Hawaiian asked.

The technician shrugged. "What? Something happened?" He paused, allowing himself a smirk. "Fraud got exposed?"

The trader sighed. "Man, you really need to get out more."

Nitro frowned at the light jab. "Come on. I barely get any breaks nowadays. At least fill me in, man."

"Whatever. Yeah, you're right. The asshole bit off more than he can chew."

"Oh?" He leaned against the girder. "I'd love to hear what happened."

"Oh, it was something. Guess who he flipped off this time: Sacha."

The technician raised a brow, slightly surprised. "Sacha? Really. How'd he deal with him?"

"Apparently, Flint wasn't Flint. He was 'Magpie' back in Zaton and he pissed off some hunters by mucking up a chimera hunt. Could you believe? He mugged them when they were busy shooting. Then he tagged along with Pilot while the hunters were getting ripped up. You know the rest of the story."

Nitro clicked his tongue to show his disgust. Flint had gained his notoriety by stealing credit off of big time achievements. At first, he was believable until story after story mounted along with the fat that began to form along his cheeks. Most stalkers took in his words with awe while those who weren't gullible enough shrugged off his bullshit and went on with their lives, some pretty peeved that all their hard work was for nothing thanks to some idiot who barely even knew what he was saying.

"What did Sacha do?"

Hawaiian allowed himself a chuckle. "Flint started stealing his credit without even realizing it. You know the bloodsucker raid in Zaton and the rerouting between here and the Skadovsk?"

"It was Sacha." He shook his head. "I assume he led him out and dealt with him himself?" _Not that he could put up much of a fight anyway._

"It's even better. He phoned in the hunters and they came over and talked to Loki. He didn't like Flint as much as anyone else did and so they got together, dragged him out into the Grove, and made him run around bare-ass naked in the middle of the anomalies until he burned out. They even got it on video. It was hilarious man." Chuckle transformed into controlled laughter and Nitro could only share in the sadistic humor, fueled only by his dislike of the ex-Freedomer.

"I wonder how he's doing..."

The laughter trailed off. "Who?"

"Sacha. I wonder how he's holding up...wherever he is."

"He's in Pripyat," Hawaiian chided, trying to share his optimism.

"Garry wouldn't be happy about that."

"Ah, he'll get over it. Besides, it's not like he could do it alone like he always wants to."

"He's no Hulk," Nitro agreed. "And Sacha isn't either. That's why I convinced him to get Zulu on board _and_ a better suit."

"The Zone gives us chickenshits more than Rambos. Sure, the tunnels aren't safe with all that gas down there but he could make it out. Vano's with him. And Zulu. And some other guys, too."

He pointed his fork. "That I heard. Strider and some military guy from the eggheads at the lake."

"Yeah. You got to admire him though. He's been through hell and back enough that Trapper gave him his old shotgun."

"I modified it." He remembered when the stalker came to him one early evening with an old Saiga with notches carved onto the stock and tape wrapped around the barrel along with a short commentary of its previous owner. "I thought he was bullshitting when he told me he scouted the Jupiter plant by himself. Who even goes there alone anyway?"

"Him, apparently. Went in there to salvage some scrap and ended up getting jumped by two chimeras, as he told me. Came running through those doors, out of breath and pumped up on Hercules with a pack full of rusted guns that he got from the zombies moving around there."

"Yeah. Didn't believe him 'til he showed me the claw marks on his vest. I'm amazed he managed to limp all the way back here."

"Hercules does that to you. More expensive than heroin or morphine but it'll numb the pain just fine...though some cocaine would have been better."

Nitro wiped his mouth, folding the lid back on and pocketing the empty can which he thought would make for good scrap metal. "He stopped by the next morning, asking me if there was anything to add to an RPG. I told him that at most, it would be an enhanced scope or an extra handgrip. If he had a good enough tube, then perhaps extend the range but not by a long shot. Then he left."

Hawaiian picked up the rest of the tale, elaborating what the technician didn't know. "He bought an RPG and all the rockets and grenades in the arsenal. Some stalkers decided to tag along to see what he would blow up with all that stuff. Wanna hear the rest of the story?"

"He went back to the plant and popped the chimeras." _Then he came back with a stack of documents that said there was an underground tunnel that led to Pripyat_, he didn't add. "Care to tell me any details? I just got the rumors."

"The rumors are pretty much the same. They snuck into the plant and got jumped by the shits. They said that they covered him while he leveled the workshops trying to blow up the beasts. A Duty squad was passing by and they were in for a surprise when the stalkers came out with some good loot. They decided to go in and found Sacha skinning the chimeras."

"Shit." Nitro knew that he had to get back to repairing Shulga's Groza which was damaged during a raid against the bandits resettling at the container warehouse. But the adventures of his sardonic friend had intrigued him more than the complexities of a top secret military radio transmitter. "What'd he get out of it?"

"Gave the pelts to the jarheads. He told them to fuck off but they followed him regardless, right through the holes in the main workshop. Found the crashed chopper, looted it, found some more junk, looted it... You know how it went. Nearly emptied by drawers."

The technician rubbed his growing beard, holding up three fingers. "Three days. Three days, man."

"I hear you." For three consecutive days, Sacha had visited the abandoned manufacturing plant just to salvage some scrap. He had found the usual, along with stashes that no one thought existed, as well as a bundle of trophies from the resident mutants which included a roaming pseudogiant and a pair of controllers. "Wish we had more of him around."

"I wonder..."

"Hm?"

"What's his motivation? I mean, what drives him to...be that crazy?"

Hawaiian shrugged, equally perplexed. "No clue. If I were a scavenger, I wouldn't go that far to get eaten by a two-headed lion just to dig up some high-grade stuff. Unless it's really worth my skin, though."

"You have point there." There seemed to be no other point in mulling over such trivialities, he thought. Perhaps that was how some stalkers lived out here in the Zone's frontier. The harshness of the environment could lead to desperation and desperation could lead to dangerous—_if not suicidal_—praxis. Maybe that was Sacha's chosen livelihood. His mind had an intellectual archive that would rival a picker, his expertise in junk besting his knowledge of artifacts.

The trader yawned. "Dammit, I feel sleepy."

"Back to work then," Nitro huffed, sauntering back to his workstation in the southern wing of the station. Wherever Sacha was, he was probably having the time of his life scrounging up treasures in the form of rusted Cold War baubles.


	4. A Little Too Excessive

Gonta glanced at his wristwatch. The sun had yet to rise in three hours but he was already well-fed, wide awake, and efficiently equipped for the swift execution they were planning to conduct later. The lead hunter turned to Garmata who also nodded his participation.

"Good. Now we wait for our old friend."

The two hunters sipped at their morning coffee, listening for the sound of footsteps against the grated steel of the ship's decks amid the music from the radio at the bar. Out of the staircase emerged their companion, also dressed appropriately with a jury-rigged Kevlar vest, the necessary padding on the connecting joints, the salvaged Ecologist screen helmet, and—

"I'm ready to go. Let's clean the Zone out," Sacha boasted, straddling over to their table.

Garmata pursed his lips, seeing Gonta a little wide-eyed at the firepower bulging from behind the third addition to their party. Sacha stared back, the excitement suddenly being stretched by the awkward silence.

"_Chto_? I'm all set. Are we going or what?"

"Um, isn't that a little too excessive?" Gonta remarked, craning his head at the cones of (_one, two, three, four..._) OG-7V rockets plopping out of the top of his backpack.

"What do you mean?" the stalker asked.

The lead hunter pointed at the (_fifth_) warhead sitting in its place inside the tube of an RPG-7 which was firmly slung over his shoulder, much to the discomfort of his companion. "I know we're going to hunt a wounded chimera but...well...with that kind of ordnance, I'm not sure we'd be able to get anything off it if we kill it."

Garmata nudged his elbow. "Uh, Gonta," he whispered, "he's the guy they were talking about who went into the Jupiter Plant. You know...when it was still teeming with mutants...ones bigger and shittier than the ones we got here?"

"No shit?"

"Haven't you even heard?"

Sacha seemed to grow slightly agitated at the brief monologue. "_Chyort_. Are we going to do this? Come on, man. I'm all packed, I tell you." As though reaching the peak of his rhetoric, he swung his palms forward. "Pfft... 'Too excessive'? Nothing's a little too excessive in the Zone."

Gonta cleared his throat. "It is, man! Don't you have your shotgun with you or something?"

"I do." The stalker motioned to the sawn-off TOZ double-barrel custom holstered to his hip. "In anticipation of your next question, I have my trusty jackknife with me."

The hunters gawked. Realizing that it was already close to three in the morning, Gonta shook off the logic that confounded him and nodded towards the door. He had experienced much peculiar things like this before, he assured himself. "Alright, let's go then. The lair isn't far and if everything goes to plan, we'll be back before sunrise."

"About fucking time," Sacha muttered.

* * *

It was particularly cloudy outside, limiting their only source of natural light. The Moon had come in full force but had only provided them a fraction of what it radiated. Still, it was enough to show the outline of the sleeping beast that lay on the derelict stage of the abandoned village up the hill southeast of the Skadovsk.

Garmata placed himself closest to the dark mass, aiming tensely down the sights of his Franchi shotgun, waiting for the others to get into position. Across the yard, Gonta caught up, slowly straightening his legs as he brought up his rifle to bear. A wry smile formed across his face as the iron sights of the Enfield centered on the back of the chimera.

He turned his head and nodded. Garmata acknowledged. "Alright," he coarsely whispered, "we're in position. Safeties are off, guns loaded..." He looked at the space in front of the rim of the stage which was supposed to be occupied by now. "Hey! Where the hell are—"

"Crab says hello, _upizdysh_!" Sacha bawled as he depressed the trigger.

Gonta's eyes went wide long enough to catch the warhead scream from its port, closing the twenty-five foot gap between its shooter and target. No sooner had a second passed when the stage lit up in a quick flash. There was barely enough time for either hunter to properly duck when the cone connected with the chimera's backside.

From where he stood, Sacha had the joy of seeing Newton's third law of physics in action close-up.

* * *

Crab stirred, grimacing at the pain that shot up from his ribcage. On the bright side, he told himself, he was nearing full recovery and within a couple of days, he would be back to hunting mutants with the team. The joy of the thought was quashed as soon as he saw the team leader lying on the gurney, nodding off with rolled-up earmuffs.

"What the..." The patient sat up, peeking dumfounded above his bunk and glimpsing Garmata's hand hanging lackadaisically off the rail.

"You're awake," Sacha remarked from the doorway.

"What is...? What...?"

"We killed a chimera. The one that nearly capped you," the stalker went on, running his hand across the ornate engraving on the wooden stock of the TOZ-34. "Nice shooter though. Fancy and all that..."

"That's Gonta's!" Crab said.

"Was. Gave it to me when we got back."

Gonta moaned, slowly readjusting himself on the gurney. There was a small hole in the hem of his pants that he was sure wasn't there the last time they came to visit. "How'd you..."

"Simple, really." Sacha reached into the hallway and placed the unloaded RPG upright inside the medical station, leaning it against the doorframe. He then angled the TOZ to his line of sight, squinting through the groove that ran from the edge of the stock to the bulge at the end of the barrel. "Man, haven't held these in quite a while..."

Crab gulped, lifting Garmata's hand upwards and grimacing as the man winced when he felt the covers of the upper mattress again. "If you ask me, that thing there was a little too—"

"—excessive, I know." The stalker sighed, his eyes still on the fancily decorated weapon. "I get that a lot. But it was well worth it, mind you."


	5. Cash Courier

**NOTE: The following chapters from here on in will not be in chronological order. So some anecdotes will take place during different points in the game in random intervals. Just sayin' to avoid confusion...**

* * *

Vano appeared to be the type who would have died of liver and lung failure if he kept up the habits that dotted his lonesome table for the next few weeks. Empty packets of cigarettes scattered across the wooden surface along with a few empty bottles of cheap Ukrainian beer. The sight alone was pitiful though Sacha had long since felt little to no pity for anyone in the Zone.

He strode casually towards the troubling stalker, hearing the babbling that sounded reminiscent of happy hour in Kiev.

Vano raised his head. Their eyes connected and rather than draw his pistol in a panic like he had expected, the man visibly cowered. Both hands flew in the air.

"Don't shoot! I'll pay the debt!"

Sacha eyed him, raising his brow to show he cared less about his debt. "Easy, man. Chill."

It took three seconds before he eased his composure. "Sorry, I thought you were someone else..."

He took his place opposite him on the table, ignoring the strong smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke. He lightly wiped the empty packets to the side so he could rest his elbows on the wood. Come to think of it, the debt thing sounded rather important and if he needed Vano, things like that were complications he wouldn't need. "Say, what was this debt you mentioned?"

"You...want to hear me out?"

_Of course, dufus. _"Yeah. What's it about?"

"Well, it's about this new suit I was going to buy..."

Sacha resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He postponed his judgment until he heard the full story. _But weeping over a suit? I thought you were one of the best around—_

"...and Jack said, 'Don't worry, Vano, you could pay me the rest later,' and I was like, 'What a nice guy' and all that..."

_Hold on. I think I know where this is going..._

"...So I got together my cash and gave it to him but Jack said, 'Well done, Vano, but what about the interest?' and I was like, 'He's right. I need to pay him the interest'..."

A vein began to pop in his head. "So what happened?"

Vano fidgeted. "I pooled some more cash and brought it to him. He said, 'While you were out, the interest went up.' It seems like the interest grows faster than I expected. I got together all my cash but came up short every time. I had to pawn the new suit and my weapons too. I want to give him the money...but I'm scared..."

_No, you're just gullible. Stupidly gullible for a reputable anomaly diver._

"...I mean, there's nothing more important than Vano's reputation so...could you go and...um...deliver the money to him for me?"

Sacha stared at the stalker. Pride, he could understand. _But my, you really are the most gullible nitwit I have ever had the grace of meeting. You keep getting ripped off by those fuckers and still entrust me, a total stranger, to courier the rest of the cash without even thinking that I could rip you off myself._ "Alright, I'll do it."

"Thanks, man. Here, it's all I've got. They're at the Checkpoint and it's been pretty quiet lately so I'm sure they're still there." A thick wad of bills appeared out of his back pocket. Sacha rifled through the sheets, counting a total of twenty thousand rubles. A handful of coins rolled against the wood, catching his attention and bringing the amount up by a few hundred. "And if you see him, make sure to whip out a badass gun or something to show you're not joking around."

The RPG came to mind and Sacha nodded, drawing out his bag and stashing the bills underneath the can of vodka and magazines. He brought out his PDA and swiped the GPS to reveal the outline of the Jupiter Plant Checkpoint. Vano saw the map and excitedly tapped the screen over the gray squares. "Yeah, that's the place."

"Alright. I'll take it to him."

"Good luck, man."

Sacha waved him off. _Man, you really are a gullible shit bang._

* * *

The bandit camp was no similar to the one at the Container Warehouses, the only big difference being the absence of the steel containers. Passing through the sentries took less dialogue than he had anticipated. The guard opened the door, revealing a wide kitchen.

Sacha rounded the corner, waited for the door to close behind him, and found Jack sitting idly by his table. The bandit chief was by himself, hastily putting down last month's issue of Playboy. A smile tugged at his lips and the man stood up with the businesslike sway that most of his kind often abused. "Well, now. Look at who we got here. How can I help you?"

_So it's just you and me now. _The absence of another guard inside the room screamed amateur. "You Jack?"

Jack nodded, instantly showing that he didn't like his tone. "Yeah. Got business to discuss?"

_Yeah. First of all, your acting skills are shit. _"It's about Vano's debt. I'm here to pay it."

"Ah, so he finally coughed up, eh? It's thirty gees with interest."

_You have got to be fucking with me. _"What do you mean? I only got like twenty and that was with the interest—"

"From last time. That was a few days ago. Interest rate's been kicking up lately," Jack replied offhandedly.

The vein that had grown in his temple finally popped. _Greedy motherfuckers._ "Look here now," he began icily, reaching into back of the wall. Jack's eyes widened at the sight of a loaded RPG trailed at his face. "I've got my shooter here and I'm itching to use it. Now tell me, what's your corpse going to do with all that interest? That is, if there would _be_ a corpse."

"Y-you're fucking insane!" the bandit chief stammered. He made no effort to heft up his own weapon as his hands were already raised in front of the angry stalker.

"Oh, I get that a lot," Sacha leered, "but watching these babies go is a rare sight and I'm dying to see it happen again. Come to think of it, I even placed a few mines here and there."

"You're bullshitting!"

The warhead danced in front of him, much to the bandit's discomfort, the tip nearly grazing his nose. "I would be until hoodie-boy-sentry would get down from his perch and step on the moss-covered rock that appeared last night."

The cogs inside Jack's mind began to turn, churning out the confusion and reaching the realization that the new guys he relegated to the gate pedestals had been dozing off again. He thought of how he would crunch their testicles with his bare fists. The joy of it was diminished when he was reminded of the explosive ordnance aimed at the space between his eyes.

"Y-you pull that trigger...w-we're all gonna go, y'know?"

Sacha shrugged. "I don't give a shit. I've got a better suit than you, anyway, so I might still have a chance. Besides, this room is like twenty square feet so I could safely blast you from the corner over there."

Jack let a weak smile creep up. "But my boys'll come in and finish you off."

The stalker smiled back, wider and more chilling than the last. "Hey, if you weren't busy jacking off to Joanna Krupa then you would have heard me rigging the door with a string and a grenade." Sacha continued to beam at the paleness of his target. _Wimp._

"What do you want, man!"

"Cancel the debt."

"_Koorvya mat'_!"

Jack's face met with the cold steel of the warhead's primer, the light shove dropping him back onto his chair like an idiot. His hands were still raised.

"Alright! Be cool! Be cool, man!"

"I repeat. Cancel the debt."

"The debt is off! The debt is off!"

The look on Sacha's face continued to terrify the bandit chief. He was sincere in nullifying the scam they were running on Vano...though he was afraid that that sincerity did not reach the crazy bastard who was pressing an explosive between his cheeks which by now was covered in both his own sweat and tears.

* * *

The Duty squad turned their attention up the road to the junction at the sound of the first explosion. Another eruption followed, sending debris flying higher than the trees around it. A plume of smoke began to rise and that sent the paramilitary stalkers racing towards Jupiter Checkpoint A which was known to be a small bandit camp.

"Sergeant! Look!"

Sergeant Paplovnik craned his head towards what used to be the garage. "What the hell happened here?"

Bodies littered the area. Those who weren't dead were incapacitated and bleeding to death along the sides. A bandit raised his hand at an approaching corporal before expiring from severe hemorrhaging caused by the absence of his whole right leg.

"Sergeant?"

Paplovnik dispatched the other two to investigate the garage area which was already a partial flaming heap. The other building which served as both the office and quarters was also missing its rear annex. The derelict BTR sitting in the middle was not spared of the damage, the dents visible on both sides of the vehicle along with spatters of blood and part of a man's torso.

The sergeant followed the corporal inside the barracks, quickly pacing over the remains of what seemed to be the guard. The shocked expression was thoroughly preserved on his face much to their disturbance.

The door at the end creaked open and the men trailed their guns automatically towards it.

"_Tse Dolga_! Stay where you are!"

Sacha waved his hand slowly, limping out of Jack's room, crimson smeared all over his chest and trousers. "Easy, man. It's all good."

"Stay where you are!"

He stood still, feeling the bubbling sensation in his stomach rising up to his throat. He also had to contend with the incessant ringing in his ears. "Easy, bro." Both hands came up, showing two pieces of an RPG.

Paplovnik dropped his guard. "Wait, are you the stalker...?"

"_Da_. And I need some help here, if it's not too obvious."

The corporal slowly lowered his own weapon.

"Tell me, what just happened?"

Sacha removed his helmet, revealing the deep lacerations that marked the crest of his right eyebrow. "Business gone bad." He then promptly vomited onto Paplovnik's boots.

* * *

"What the hell happened to you?"

Vano spoke up for him. "He took on Jack! He was going to pay my debt so I gave him cash but I told him to—"

Zulu raised a hand. "Let's just be direct for now. Sacha, you got eaten by a mutant or something?" It was a common joke that had since lost its touch since the early days of stalking.

Lieutenant Sokolov sipped at his water and stared silently. The M14 DMR served as a makeshift cane to a leg that had been hit by something as evidenced by the man's apparent posture.

"Shit happened," Sacha replied grimly, "Anyway, Vano's on the team."

The buffed ex-Duty member regarded the duo with a tilt of his head before shrugging. "Well, then. Welcome aboard, Vano. You still got your wits?"

"You bet!" he cheerfully replied.

As the two kicked off, Sokolov leaned towards his comrade. "You're limping."

"I know," the stalker grunted, leaning against the door frame. _Isn't it fucking obvious, lieutenant?_

"How long 'til you recover? Is this going to postpone the mission?"

"Slightly. Look, we still need one more. Right?"

Zulu piped, "That's right."

The temporarily crippled stalker winced, adjusting his weight against the frame, a scowl visible in the backlight of the table lamp. "We'll get to Pripyat and see your boys soon. Just chill out, alright?" _Not that there's much still alive. Besides, I have enough shit to worry about now. My RPG is broken... Fucking broken..._


	6. Cannon Fodder

The gas tank fit snugly into place, Sacha thought. With the hose tightly connected to the break in the top of the canister, all that was needed now was to release the deadly nerve agent into the ventilation system of the basement underneath the antenna complex.

He gripped the valve, grunting as the steel grated against its holders after years of inactive use. Bits of rust flaked off while the tube gave way and began to spin loosely in his hold, continuing its revolutions until abruptly clamping still.

"That should do it." Sacha smiled. "The fuckers won't know what hit—"

A roar echoed from the guardhouse behind the complex. Sacha spun wildly, the Mosin sliding into his grip. It echoed again but from the inside the main building.

"_Himno_," the stalker gasped at the faint distortion against the concrete yard.

The Mosin was quickly swapped for the shotgun that measured barely half the rifle. Although it ensured quick stoppage against close threats, it only held two shells and reloading it was a tad bit of a pain in a fast-paced situation. _Goddamnit, no, no, no, no!_

Sacha spotted small patches of grass receding as the distortion came closer and _faster than the normal bloodsucker!_ "_Yob tvoyu mat'_!"

The shotgun boomed twice quickly followed by a guttural growl and a scream.

* * *

Viggo settled by the roadside, pausing to rest his heels. The rest of the squadron stopped behind, similarly following his example to allow for the blood to circulate in their legs after an hour of straight walking. The added encumbrance of the supplies they looted from a stash and some passing zombies did not help to ease their already tired bodies.

"Erik? Could you take point, now?"

Erik nodded, bringing out his binoculars and scanning the slope of the valley. Not far behind them was the Oakpine anomaly and up ahead was the Krug antenna complex, an abandoned facility of derelict radio towers that had ceased to serve their purpose immediately after the 1986 Chernobyl incident. The rest of their environment composed of trees, bushes, and a road that looped around the hill to Krug.

Koryll and Rubik leaned against the railing, stretching their legs. Had they been more vigilant, then they would have realized that their Germanic group of comrades would have been picked off by the prowlers of the Zone.

"See anything?"

"_Nein_. No movement—"

A shadow appeared out of the trees behind Krug. Erik rolled the dials on his binoculars, increasing magnification to capture a visibly terrified stalker sprinting towards them.

"Hey! Look at this."

The squadron leaped upright, weapons trained at the growing dot in the distance.

"He looks like he's by himself," Koryll surmised, centering the reticule of his red-dot sight on the man's chest.

"Must have had a fright," Rubik said, chuckling and bringing the rest of the group into a light laugh...which was promptly cut short by the screeching of bloodsuckers.

Viggo was the first to pale. "_Scheisse_... _Scheisse, scheisse, scheisse_!"

The wisps of warped air danced around the fleeing stalker, one of them quickly weaving into reality to land a swipe at its target then cloaking itself again. The stalker balked, nearly stumbling, before resuming his gait. Drops of blood began to seep onto the cemented road.

The Germanics tightened their grips on their guns, wavering from one target to another, deciding whether to shoot the man or the monsters behind him. None of them thought of running away.

* * *

Sacha closed the gap, his face unable to cringe at the pain that rocketed up from his left hip. The four stalkers up ahead had their weapons centered on him. He flew past them.

"_Krovososi_!" he cried, leaping over the railing and rolling down the slope.

* * *

Viggo peered over the steel, watching the man tumble into the shallow lake. He watched him straggle onto his feet, the dark blue water growing murkier with his blood. They briefly met eye to eye until his comrades began firing.

The native Dane hurled himself around just in time to meet the yellow pupils of a freshly materialized bloodsucker.

* * *

The firefight rang continuously behind him as he trudged across the water. He paused, grimacing at the pain, turning around to see the shape of four men scattering about, firing wildly at the invisible beasts. A smile tugged at his lips though his conscience would have protested it. He had long since suppressed all notions of guilt, as much as he'd liked to believe.

Sacha continued to push through the lake, keeping pressure onto the gash above his right kidney until he climbed onto a rock and pulling out a roll of gauze. _Thank God for cannon fodder._


End file.
